Contradiction in Terms
by Rhianwen
Summary: She's just a nifty bundle of contradictions, his pretty little righthand gal. But lucky for both of them, he likes puzzles. Syndrome x Mirage.


Contradiction in Terms

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Disclaimer: I don't own them, they don't like me. This story is not acquiring any profit, which is a good thing, as that is about how much it is worth.

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Summary: She's just a nifty bundle of contradictions, his pretty little right-hand gal. But lucky for both of them, he likes puzzles. Syndrome x Mirage.

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She's just a nifty bundle of contradictions, his pretty little right-hand gal.

She seems so _calm_ and _organized_ and _everything's under control_, but she's genetically incapable of keeping her purse tidy, so she can never find anything.

(_Maybe if you didn't carry a purse the size of a frickin' suitcase_, he suggested once, only to duck quickly as she glared briefly up from her rummaging and chucked a tube of lipstick at his head.)

From looking at her, you'd expect those tiny little hands to be ice cold and hardly even real, but they sure burn through him when she absently rubs at his shoulders until he wants to fall asleep, or at least drag her off to bed.

(Okay, so it's mostly the second, and they don't always manage to make it all the way out of his workspace.)

She looks like her voice _should_ be quiet and controlled all the time, but the guys swear up and down that when she gets mad, they can hear her shouting from two buildings over.

(_He_ prefers the noises he can get from her by catching her by surprise, throwing her against a wall or shoving her down wherever he can find some space on a table, the floor, whatever, and having her almost undressed before she knows what's happening. Then again, she's pretty hot when she's pissed off...)

She's got this indifferent, independent thing down to an art, and no one but him knows that she catches her pillow in a death-grip sometime during the night and he wakes up to find her cuddling blissfully away until he can tug the damn thing out of her arms and sneak in there himself.

(Hey, it's _cold_ in the mornings, and she's like a little human furnace when she's asleep, even if she looks like she should always be shivering and vanish like a mist when you try to grab her.)

And for a girl who looks like _she's her own boss_ with that confident little wiggle in her walk, who doesn't _need_ men, she sure puts up with a lot.

(Like, if she's only sticking around when she _wants_ to, when it's _convenient_, why does she look like she's choking down a cactus when word gets back that a little boy was fatally injured in an _accident_ they might have caused just a little bit to lure out the latest target, but never bring it up again and just keep on with _business as usual_?)

Hell, for that matter, a girl who acts like she had her conscience surgically removed at the age of six shouldn't wake up screaming and sleep with the lights on so that her victims can't get her.

(The only, the _only_ reason he put up with _that_ crap was that he was having a bad night too, and since they weren't sleeping anyway, she was up for suggestions on how to pass the time until morning.)

He's still not sure what to make of it, if she's only here because _it works for now_ but she doesn't even _like_ what they're doing, or him half the time, and can't keep pretending forever, that she shoved him out of the way when his one-time hero lunged forward, white with despairing fury.

(How the hell did _Mirage_, of all people, manage to knock him over? Clearly, this is a sign that he needs to get some self-defense classes. Weight training. Anything. Sure, you don't need to be a physical powerhouse when you've got goons to do everything for you, but god_damn_. If _she_ could knock him over, so could, like, a light breeze.)

Now he's trying, trying, trying to explain that he knew Mr. Incredible didn't have the guts to squish a _bug_, let alone the cute little blonde who's been fawning and flattering and flirting with him for, like, weeks, but damn it, she won't hold still for a second and _let_ him. Just swats him off and pouts like a bratty little kid when he tries to tell her that he'd never leave her where he thought there was actual danger, because never mind emotional attachment, the sex is way too good to just throw away like nothing.

(Figures that she's so damn good at _reading_ him most of the time, but just as soon as it really matters, _no, I'm not like a goddamn mind-reader the rest of the time, I didn't know you have a plan, I haven't trusted you to save my ass dozens of times before, what are you talking about?_)

And you'd think, from the way she was looking at him like the biggest jerk on the planet, _bet your own life next time, valuing someone else's life isn't weakness, you asshole_ – something like that – that he was in full-on sleeping-on-the-couch mode for the next decade.

But just before he could climb into the plane and get going, this gray and tan and silverblonde streak came shooting through the huge domed concrete docking building at him, caught him in this bone-crunching hug, and gave him this long, desperate, might-never-see-you-again pornstar kiss until all the guys whooped and catcalled and he had to smash one of their heads against a wall to make his point.

She sure knows how to raise a guy's…uh, _spirits_, but damned if he'll ever understand what's going on in her pretty little head.

_If you don't come back safely, I'll kill you_. What the hell was _that_ supposed to mean?

Women. Now he remembers why he stuck to dating sims and videos.

Until she kisses him again.

Then it's kind of hard to think at all.

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